Atlas: The Man Who Rebuilt the World
by MomochiNaruto
Summary: POSSIBLY PERMANENT HIATUS. My apologies to my readers, but the time has come for me to accept that I am not yet capable of writing a story like this. It's too big, encompassing too many elements and too large a theme for my as-yet nascent writing skills. So for the foreseeable future, expect no updates to this story.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Fallout 3 is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I gain no monetary profit from writing this.

**ATLAS**

**Chapter One:**** G.O.A.T.**

"So, let me get this straight," Edwin Brotch said, staring at what he had _thought_ was his star pupil, "you _want_ to go into maintenance?"

"That's right," was the response he got.

The G.O.A.T. was long over, and all of the other students had left. One student had stayed behind, and surprised his teacher with a request for an assignment change. This was not unusual, but normally such requests were for an upgraded position. A request for a _down_grade was unheard of.

"… I must admit, Mr. Pascal, that I don't much like giving someone a position they are _over_qualified for. It's at least as bad as one they are _under_ qualified for. So, what brought this on? If you didn't want medicine, I would have expected some other highly technical field."

Marcus Pascal stared at him for a long time. Finally, he quietly admitted, "I hacked my father's terminal the other day."

Edwin appraised him. 'Hmm. That's a thoughtful look, not a guilty one.' "And? You obviously don't feel bad about it."

"That's right, I don't. But when I did, I saw the file he keeps on Mr. Armstrong."

"And what, may I ask, in Stanley's file made you decide to work with him?"

Marcus held his gaze for a moment. "My father has recommended a lifelong prescription of aspirin for Mr. Armstrong, on the grounds of his headaches. Ostensibly, his headaches are caused by the light down here, but in reality my father believes them to be the result of overwork and stress. He also states that this is unlikely to change, as the Overseer has been… unwilling to change Mr. Armstrong's work schedule."

Edwin grimaced. 'I knew Stanley was hurting, but…' "So, you're doing this for Stanley? While noble, that isn't really…"

"No, not for him," Marcus interrupted, "I'm doing this for me. Mr. Armstrong is a great mechanic, no question, but he can't keep up with the work schedule. That means that maintenance in the Vault is running behind. This Vault is old as it is, and it's likely to fall apart completely if it isn't constantly maintained. You know as well as I do that the only reason it's lasted this long is because we've closed off whole sections, in order to conserve power and spare parts. If Mr. Armstrong can't keep up with the repairs, we may find ourselves waking up covered in Radroaches soon. So, even if I'm more than capable of doing something more intellectual, at this point _my_ survival is dependent on this place holding together."

He smiled brightly. Edwin had never gotten used to seeing Marcus's smile. It was disconcerting: not because it was false, but because it was genuine. He was one of the few in the Vault still capable of genuine joy, still capable of untainted happiness. It was like… seeing an infant smile, so innocently, and at the same time seeing a very old man, who'd seen much horror in his life, smile as well. It was an innocent sort of happiness, not because of any lack of maturity on Marcus's part, but because… well, that was the part that disturbed Edwin. It was like Marcus still believed in a rational world, in spite of knowing otherwise.

"Ok. If you want it so bad, it's yours. But…"

"But?"

"I'm going to include in my report to the Overseer that you requested this, and that I allowed it in spite of you being overqualified, citing your reasons. As I won't include your reasons, the Overseer may be calling you in for an interview to find out why."

Marcus shook his head. "It's possible, but unlikely. My friendship with Amata has made Mr. Amaldovar hate me for reasons he, in my estimate, is unwilling to think about. I think he will be pleased to find me in the maintenance department, and probably won't even read the rest of your report."

Edwin chuckled. There was little chance of anything but pleasure on the Overseer's part upon seeing Marcus's work assignment, true. Edwin hadn't known precisely how much Alphonse had hated the boy, but the occasional inquiries into how his class was going never failed to infuriate the man, especially when Edwin mentioned that, yes, Marcus was _still_ the best student he'd ever had.

"Hmm… You're probably right about that… What are you doing?"

Marcus had pulled, out of his pocket, what appeared to be a heavily modified sensor module. He hit a switch on it, and then affixed Edwin with the most serious expression he'd ever seen on anyone. "I want to tell you something Mr. Brotch, but I'd rather that this part of the conversation stays between us."

Edwin looked at him a long moment. 'What the hell…?' "Okay. What's on your mind?"

"The Vault is failing."

Taken aback, Edwin could feel his face paling. Marcus went on. "I'm not sure how much longer we have, but we have a _fixed_ amount of time remaining; that much I'm sure of. I've… found a terminal in a closed off section of the Vault. It dates back to the Vault's construction, and contains records from the opening of the Vault to the present.

"Based on what I've discovered, Vault 101 was originally intended to last twenty years. We've lasted _two hundred years_. While the human will to continue was instrumental in making that possible, the fact of the matter is that machines fail.

"But this is not what I meant when I said that the Vault is failing. The Vault is failing because Alphonse will _very likely_ be our last Overseer, and yet no preparations are being made for the day that we will have only one choice left: Starve, or open the Vault. Again."

Now Edwin's face turned white (or at least as white as it could turn). "How…"

"It doesn't matter. The point is, I _know_. I know the Vault was opened before. I also know that the outside world is still livable, if only with difficulty. I also know that our best option would be to open the Vault _now_, so we have time to acclimate and to plan, instead of waiting. I also know that we aren't doing that; I know that no one is talking about that; I know that the Overseer has threatened more than once to have anyone who mentions going outside beaten. I know that the Vault is going to fail someday, and when it does I want to be ready. _That's_ why I'm going into maintenance, Mr. Brotch. So that I will know exactly how long we have."

Silence reigned. Edwin could only stare at his best student, who had proven to him that not only was he fantastically bright (which Edwin had already known), Marcus was actually _far more intelligent_ than anyone he'd ever known. He saw with untainted eyes, and processed without error, refusing to discard conclusions just because they were disturbing. He put his own judgment forward, and seeing no resistance from others around him, was confident in his conclusions, in spite of the fact that no one had ever agreed with him: he knew that they refused to agree because he was _right_, not because he was wrong; he was completely right, but no one wanted to face what it would mean to agree, so the only response they could offer was to evade the question (or in the case of the Overseer, threaten violence).

He knew, deep inside, that the Overseer would want to know this. He knew that Alphonse would want _very badly_ to know this. He also knew that Marcus was right.

He could think of nothing to say. So instead, he directed his gaze to the odd device.

"Oh, this? There may be no cameras, but the Overseer has the classroom bugged. But I know how the security system in this Vault works. The moment I switched this on, the bug started registering a conversation we had nearly a year ago, a conversation that I know the Overseer never listened to the entire recording of. No one but the two of us will ever know the contents of this conversation."

He rose. "Have a good evening, Mr. Brotch." And without saying another word, he left.

Edwin stared after him for a long while, long after the boy… no, the _man-ling_ had gone back to his quarters, to get some sleep in preparation for his first day as a mechanic. For nearly an hour, Edwin looked at the doorway, simultaneously trying not to think, and at the same time not willing to refuse thought. Finally, seeing no other solution, he reached into his desk and pulled out a glass and a bottle of vodka. He filled the glass to the rim, and downed it in a single gulp. The drink burned all the way down, but he barely noticed, filling the glass a second time, and settling in for a long night of struggling not to think about what Marcus had made him think about.

~~~Scene Break~~~

Marcus returned to his quarters for his nightly shower, in preparation for bed. 'Damn old man is probably going to dance a jig when he sees where I've gone, because it'll make it easier for him to evade the truth once again.'

In truth, what Marcus had found wasn't merely a Pre-War terminal, as great of a find as that would have been. What he'd found was the failsafe records terminal. It contained every single file that had ever been committed to any Vault terminal, every security record, and probably half of the Library of Congress. When he'd first discovered it, he'd been nine years old and out of bounds, but would have been willing to tell the Overseer all about it, because he had believed the records would help the Vault.

As luck would have it, while he was fiddling with the terminal, he'd stumbled across a directory labeled "Deleted Security Records". In class, Mr. Brotch had told them that security records were never deleted, "just in case". So, being the bright and curious child he was, he'd immediately investigated the directory of what shouldn't exist. And being a bright child he immediately recognized a trend from the records.

"Deleted Record #6" was dated July 5, 2260. This, to the nine year old, meant that only 5 records from before that date had been deleted. Record #1, dated January 4th 2078, turned out to be of someone's private quarters: he recognized them as the Overseer's quarters. In each one, he saw two people appearing to wrestle, naked, on the Overseer's bed. Being the son of the Vault doctor, he very quickly understood that the two were having sex.

His face reddened slightly, knowing he wasn't supposed to be watching this. 'Some of father's books mentioned sex. This isn't exactly what I pictured, but… Why was this deleted? I suppose I can ask father later.'

Records #2-#5 had similar contents. None contained audio files. But when he looked at Record #6, his heart stopped.

It showed a man entering the Overseer's office. There was a strange man in the Overseer's chair ('That must be Mr. Amaldovar's predecessor,' he'd thought). But after what seemed to be a heated argument, the man drew a gun ('What's that black thing on the end of the gun?') and shot the Overseer! Several times, the last right in the face, even! That was bad enough, but seeing the shooter's face… 'That was Mr. Amaldovar! Mr. Amaldovar is a murderer!'

The video continued, showing Mr. Amaldovar cleaning up the blood, and dragging the body out of the room. Records #7-#10 were of different cameras showing Mr. Amaldovar pulling the body out of the Vault.

The last file in the directory of things that shouldn't exist was numbered #57. All of them had been deleted during Amaldovar's term as Overseer.

From that point on, Marcus spent every single moment he could spare pouring over that terminal. Every record, from the First Closing, until the present: no file left unviewed. It was clear, even to a nine-year-old, what the records he'd found meant. 'Mr. Amaldovar is a murderer. That means he's evil.'

He knew that the previous Overseer had been murdered, or else Mr. Amaldovar would have told people why he'd killed the man. Instead, everyone thought that the previous Overseer had just vanished into the Wastes one day; or at least that's what the written records Marcus had found said. 'Mr. Brotch never mentioned that the Vault used to be open. He always talked about it as though it had always been closed.'

Eventually, after he'd worked his way through the records, he began accessing the literature archives. The files he'd found had indicated that the reason the archives had always seemed so empty was because various Overseer's (not starting with Amaldovar, though he was the worst) had been systematically deleting the archives over the years. They only ever deleted the least-used files, but that added up. It was always explained as "corrupted files, deleted for maintenance purposes".

But this archive was complete. It _had_ a fair amount of corruption, at least with the older works, but it wasn't nearly as damaged as the Overseer's had made it out to be.

By a stroke of luck, he happened across a most amazing work.

~~~Flashback (after a year with the terminal)~~~

'What's this? A book called… "Atlas (something, the title was corrupted)" The author's name is corrupted too. Most of the story seems okay… but the only other bit of information about it is the publishing date: 1957. Wow! This book is more than 300 years old!' Now intrigued, he sent the book through the data cable into his PipBoy, and retired to his room to read.

The next morning, Marcus was late to class, for the first time. He'd stayed up all night, reading that amazing book, "Atlas (something)". In class, he barely paid attention to the lesson, and the moment class was over, he rushed back to his room to read more.

By week's end, he'd managed to finish the book. He was sorry to see that some parts of the book were corrupted and unreadable, but enough remained that he was able to guess at the missing parts from the context.

He spent the next week in a daze, lost in thought. His father worried for him, as did others, but after the week ended he was back to normal. Or, so they thought.

~~~End Flashback~~~

After that week, Marcus had never been the same. Nothing in that book had been anything new to him. It contained no information he hadn't already known. But… what it _had_ contained had been more valuable than anything he'd ever imagined. It had given him the words to express something he'd felt for a long time, but had never had words for. At first, he'd wondered about the author's purpose. What sort of horrifying world had she (he'd sussed out that the author was female, as the writing reminded him of other female authors he'd read) imagined?

Only… it hadn't been mere imagination. In fact, the longer he thought about it, the more terrified he had become. That author had predicted, not in so many words but predicted all the same, what would happen to the United States, 120 years before it actually happened. Not only that, but she had predicted the entire collapse (and that's what the century leading up to the war with China had been, he realized: a long, slow collapse) step by step, and had done so not with mystic powers but by correctly identifying the mentality of both the general populace and of the politicians in charge.

And that was what Marcus had gained from reading this book. What he'd understood was the importance of the word: _morality._ Because what the author had been trying to get across, and what he learned, that he had always known, is that it's never _what_ you do, it's _why_. In order for a choice to be good (or bad), in order for a _person_ to be good (or bad), it was their _why_ that one had to look in order to judge them. And their _why_ relative to the world was _morality_. What the author had said is that the world would be destroyed because it _lacked_ any kind of rational moral system.

The Before world had had many moral systems, but **none** of them had been rational moral systems, because most of them failed a basic understanding of what morals were, and the rest just did away with rationality. The basic questions facing any moral system numbered 2: 1) What is the standard by which we judge morality? And 2) Who should moral choices be aimed at?

The Before world had mostly operated on some variant of altruism/collectivism, which based their morality on how one's choices affect _others_. The problem, according to "Atlas's" author, was that altruism/collectivism did not answer the first question, instead it substituted its answer to the second question for the first; that is, that the target of morality is _others_ and that the standard of morality is that which is good for others.

This, Marcus understood, was the root of all evil. It made men into sacrificial animals, to be sacrificed for the benefit of others. "Which men?" the author asked. "The able men, of course. They are the only ones who have something to give". And which others? "Those without ability, of course. They have nothing to give, how can we take from them when they have nothing?"

The question, according to the author, was "Why? Why must some be sacrificed, when more good can be achieved by those men then can be achieved by sacrificing them? Why should we eat our best, when we can have more food by letting them produce? Why must we try to have our cake and eat it as well?"

The answer to the moral philosophy (the non-existent moral philosophy) of altruism had become a dirty word long before the war. It had been a dirty word, one few wanted to be heard speaking in favor of even during its heyday. No other philosophy had done as much good for mankind as this one. None had even presented much of a challenge.

"It's only rational," the author seemed to say, "that the only possible standard of morality is _oneself_. That is the correct answer to the second question. What, then, is the answer t the first?

"Of all entities in the universe, only a certain class has _values_. This class is the class of living things. Of the class of living things, only one class has consciousness; that is, the ability to make choices. That class is animals. Of all animals, only one lacks the natural instincts necessary to exist on a _perceptual level_, a level consisting only of what one is experiencing _right now_. That one is _man_.

"For anything alive, its basic choice is: life or death. This must therefore be _the one and only standard of value_ for anything alive. But of all living things, only one is given the ability to act as his own destroyer: man. This is because man possesses the _conceptual_ faculty: the ability to integrate what one has experienced _before_ into a useful whole in order to better understand _now_, and to make useful predictions about what will happen _next_. That is, man possesses the ability to properly understand his past well enough to make it useful both in the present, and in preparing for the future by predicting what the future will be. It is therefore _only_ man that needs to ask these questions.

"For most of history, man lived at just above the level of animals. Often, he didn't even live as well. So, for most of history, man made little use of the great power he possessed. But finally, for an all-too-brief shining moment, lasting barely 150 years, man _finally_ found the voice he needed, finally recognized the power he possessed, finally _made_ something with all the knowledge he had collected.

"Just as science gave a proper structure to man's search for knowledge, so did this system give a proper structure to his ability to sustain his own life. That it eventually failed him was not the fault of the system, it would have continued to produce, and continued to improve its productive ability, so long as he continued to use it. Only, those who were supposed to be leading us, our philosophers, deserted the men of this system, because few among them had ever discovered how wrong collectivism had been. Few among them had ever accepted that contradictory premises could _never_ be satisfied: that only a non-contradictory philosophy could flow, that anything else would impede thought.

"And because few of them had ever managed, those in the populace who lacked the ability to think for themselves believed the irrational philosophers. Why? Because those men told them that the problem was not in themselves, it was in the stars, it was in fate, it was God's will, it was the fault of THOSE MEN! 'HOW DARE THEY SUPPOSE THAT THEY CAN HAVE WHAT WE DON'T HAVE? HOW DARE THEY DEFY GOD'S WILL?'

"Although many were willing to defend this system on a practical basis, none could provide a _moral_ basis for it. And so long as altruism (which people thought was moral) was opposed to this system, no matter how much good it accomplished, it would always be thought of as _wrong_, as nothing better than a necessary evil. And it was undercut and maligned and misrepresented at every turn, even as it worked its heart out, making easier the lives of those who hated it, just as they desired.

"Until one day, their philosophy finally collapsed."

This was what Marcus took away from him, and it was this understanding, this conviction that made him sleep soundly that night. Most would have been shocked at his thoughts: he was actually looking _forward_ to what would be a gruelingly difficult career working for a man who hated him doing work that no one would respect him for. But he was doing it for himself. He was doing it because it gave him time to think, to plan, to learn. It gave him time to prepare.

Just as he fell asleep, his last thoughts made him smile once more. 'I swear of my life and love of it that I will never live my life for another man, nor ask him to live his life for me. I am _no one's_ sacrificial lamb! No one is _my_ sacrificial lamb!

'I am rational. I am logical. I am consistent. I regard _thought_ as the greatest power given to man.

'I am a _capitalist_.'

Author's notes: Many of you might recognize the text that I'm drawing on for this story.

For those of you that don't, don't fret. You don't need to know what it's called, or what it's about. MY story is not about that book. Or, at least, it isn't about _that_ story. It's about why that story is true, despite being a work of fiction. My story will be about Marcus living the lessons he learned.

For those of you who got bored, fret not. Later chapters will have a fair bit of introspection, but not nearly like this. The whole point of this chapter was simple: not how, but _why_. That Marcus is a highly capable and intelligent man could be explain by simple genetics and luck. It wasn't his capabilities that I needed to address here. It was his _motivation_. It was what will make him do what he does later that I needed to create here, so that you, the reader, could follow and appreciate where I'm going with what I'm writing.

Chapter 2 will probably be a little short, but it should be out soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Fallout 3 is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I gain no monetary profit from writing this.

**ATLAS**

**Chapter 2: Work**

"We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America." – Preamble of the Constitution of the United States; September 17, 1787

"Marcus!"

He turned his head, staring down the corridor at Amata, who had called his name. As she was approaching him, he turned back to his work, and continued tightening the valve on the water pipe.

When she reached him, he finally responded, "Need something, Amata? I'm rather busy here."

Amata was taken aback. Each time she had spoken to him, for the last two-and-a-half years, Marcus had been just a little bit testy, as though something vaguely upsetting (but was not her fault) kept happening just before she encountered him; but he'd never blown her off like that before. "Umm, yes, actually, I do need something."

He stopped working for a moment, and turned his head towards her just long enough to say, "Okay, what's up?" before turning his concentration back to his work.

"Well, it's your birthday tomorrow…" she began softly.

_Now_ he was surprised. "Really? How about that. I don't notice the passing of time as much anymore… So, what about it? Got something planned?"

"…I was hoping that you would join me for dinner. In my quarters."

His hands stopped. But when he looked at her once more, instead of shock, his face was incredulous. "Dinner? With you?"

She nodded, with a hopeful look on her face. "Yes, I've been taking lessons from Ms. Palmer. I was hoping to cook for you."

His hands came away from the valve, leaving the wrench attached. His whole body turned and faced her. His hands rose to his hips, and he stared. "Amata. Dinner. With you. In _your quarters_."

Now her voice was small, as though she hadn't wanted to consider what he meant. "Well, I was hoping that he…"

He interrupted. "That what? That your father didn't spend nearly an hour shouting at me in the middle of the Atrium, just yesterday, for no reason other than my asking him to change his policy on water use? Your father, who jumped for joy the day I turned down a medical career for one in Maintenance, only to turn furious when he realized that he would be depending on me for his own livelihood? Your father, whose idea of responding to my inquiries about spare parts is to threaten to have my ration coupons docked for insubordination? Your father, who hates me, despite the fact that I am the best –the _best_- mechanic the Vault has ever had, for reasons he is unwilling to discuss with anyone? You were hoping that that man could be rational enough for one evening, for my sake or yours, to allow me to have _dinner in your quarters_, alone with you, and not hold it against me for the remainder of his career as Overseer?"

She seemed to shrink down into herself. "Well, I was hoping you would want to, but if you don't…" She seemed ready to cry.

He pinched the top of his nose, lowering his head and sighing. "Amata, whether I would _want_ to join you for dinner or not is completely irrelevant. You know _precisely_ how your father would respond. Unfortunately, your father is currently the Overseer. I am a mechanic, meaning that even if my relationship with the Overseer hadn't been so strained, he'd never approve. The fact that I deliberately chose a lower-level career, and am actually more intellectually capable than he, doesn't make a difference to him. Actually, scratch that, that fact is what he hates me for."

Tears had begun in her eyes, but Marcus had no pity. 'She knew all of this before she brought this to me.' "What am I supposed to do…?"

"I told you more than two years ago what you should do. You didn't listen then, and you aren't going to now: I can already see that. I told you a long time ago that your father isn't much more than a brute who can't see past his own nose; I told you that if you wanted to be able to live your own life for yourself, you would have to break with him; I told you that so long as you allowed _his_ approval be the primary criterion for your life, you would be unhappy; I told you that he didn't love you, or anyone else, because the only thing he ever really enjoyed was control.

"I told you that the _only_ reason that he treats you the way he does, as though he constantly disapproves of everything you choose for yourself, is because he actually _does_ disapprove: he hates the fact that you aren't under his control."

Tears were flowing. She ran off.

Marcus sighed again. 'Truth only hurts when you've been lying to yourself.'

~~~Scene Break~~~

"Sir?"

Alphonse Amaldovar scowled. That voice, the one he hated most, appearing out of nowhere, yet _again_. 'How could he possibly get to my office without anyone noticing, or at least hearing, him?! _Stanley_, at least, can usually be heard from a different floor just by the noises from the tools he carries.'

"What is it?!"

"You agreed to hear my performance report today, sir. I have come to give it."

The performance report was something the Overseer had created for the sole purpose of trying to keep Marcus under his thumb. Once a year, Marcus had to give a complete report on what he had accomplished that year, and defend basically every decision he made. What Marcus was actually supposed to do, and how the Overseer justified it to the rest of the Vault, was to give a report on the current state of the Vault. The problem was that because Marcus was in the Maintenance department, and had taken over the senior mechanic position from Stanley( the only way the Overseer could justify having Marcus give the report), anything negative he said was construed to be his fault, because he was the one in charge of maintaining the Vault systems.

The Overseer hadn't yet managed to find fault with anything he did, but that didn't stop him from trying. Precisely what Marcus's punishment for a poor performance report would be was left unsaid, but Marcus knew that it would be both bad and completely unjust. 'One way or another, this one will be my last,' he thought.

"Fine. I don't have a lot of time, so get started."

"Very well. Before I begin, sir, I would like you to agree to hear everything I have to say, and not to interrupt me." He held up his hand, forestalling the first interruption. "I don't expect you to agree with anything I have to say, but I would like you to hear it. When I am done, I will explain each and every one of my conclusions to your satisfaction, if you like. If you don't like what I have to say, say so and I will never mention it again."

Alphonse stared at him a long moment, but finally nodded. "Fine. I'll listen one time, and one time _only_."

"Okay. The Vault is dying."

Alphonse's mouth tightened, and Marcus could see the rage in his eyes, but he did not interrupt. "At present, less than 20% of the Vault remains in operation. For this reason, whole wings of the Vault have been closed. Some parts of the closed wings suffered damage in the initial nuclear barrage, because Vault-Tech decided to scrimp on the use of high-grade concrete. Based on my understanding of Pre-War concrete, a fair portion of what was used in the construction of Vault 101 was no better than middle-grade, which would have violated Vault-Tech's construction contract, if the US government were still around to prosecute.

"More damage has been done in the ensuing two centuries since the closing of the Vault, from a combination of earthquakes, thermal expansion/contraction in the surrounding rocks, and subterranean water flows. The original design of the Vault would probably last a thousand years (or more), if it had been built to spec. Since it wasn't, I estimate less than another century before the remaining sections of the Vault become unsuitable for human habitation. However, none of that matters, because we have more pressing problems.

"Our next problem is the lighting situation. As you probably know, living underground without lighting is impossible for humans. That said, we are down to less than 20% of our store of functional lights. Most of what we have working right now has been scavenged from the closed sections of the Vault, which was no easy task. As for our original store of spare parts, we ran through those by the time of the 4th Overseer, more than a century ago. With what we have remaining, if we begin rationing their use _today – _turning off the lights in store rooms when not in use, for example, as the Radroaches can't break in to those - they might last us another forty years. That, however, is also irrelevant, as our problems get worse.

"Our next problem is the generator. It is currently operating at 35% of capacity, which means that even if the closed sections of the Vault weren't so damaged, we would have to leave them closed anyway. Unfortunately, the generators were also not built to spec, as they were supposed to have 20% extra capacity above what the Vault needed to run all of its systems. As far as I can tell, it only had 4% extra. The generator's ability to produce electrical power has been constantly degrading since the Vault was opened, as it had a finite supply of deuterium for its fusion process. Also, the fuel supply has been degrading faster than projected, meaning a leak in the storage system. We do not have the equipment necessary to patch a leak small enough to emit _hydrogen_, so there's nothing we can do about that.

"However, that's only the fuel. The components have been badly degraded from being run at-capacity for so many years. Add in the fact that Vault-Tech was overly generous in their technical estimates of how efficient the many systems in the Vault are, makes for a serious problem. The Vault's life support systems – our hydroponics, water recycling, air filtering, etc – require at least 22% of the generator's maximum capacity to function. At the current rate of fuel depletion, we have approximately 27 years before our life-support system will be endangered. As before, we can push the problem back by rationing power use, but the best we can hope for is perhaps an additional 5 years.

"A problem equally worrisome but not nearly as bad is the situation with our medical supplies. As you know, for nearly two years prior to my father's appointment to the position, the Vault was without a medical officer. During this time, medical supplies were still being used, but poorly, resulting in waste. In addition, none of the equipment used to produce pharmaceutical agents such as aspirin and stimpaks received much maintenance during this period. This situation has improved somewhat since my father became the Vault Doctor, but his expertise is not with the repair of such machines. Unfortunately, because of the maintenance schedule you have insisted upon, neither Stanley nor I have had time to attempt further repairs to the machines. This problem can be solved, but only temporarily. Fixing the machines would help our situation with the chemical agents, but our store of the nonrenewable agents is reaching its end. We will no longer be able to produce stimpaks in as little as 23 years, and that assumes you assign us to fix the machines _today_.

"And the final, and worst, problem is the water chip. As you may, or may not, know, Vault 101 was supposed to be given two water chips, a main chip and a backup, for its original slated duration of 20 years. Each chip was given a _minimum_ rating of twenty years by Vault-Tech, meaning that the backup may or may not have been necessary for the original mission.

"Instead, we were shipped 30 water chips: fifteen times our original allotment, and allowed for a maximum duration of 600 years. It was fortunate that we received so many, as only the first of them lasted longer than 15 years, and the rest lasted significantly less: the eleventh chip lasted just one year. As you should recall, Stanley and I recently installed our thirtieth and final chip, after the previous one cracked. With an average lifespan of 15 years, our hopes for this one lasting the entire original specified 20 years are not good. If I began _today_, I might be able to scavenge sufficient parts from the previous 29 broken chips to cobble together a makeshift chip. Based on my examination of the components scavenged from the previous chips, however, this is not likely, and there is no way of knowing how long the makeshift chip would last. If you install _significant_ water rationing _today_, it is possible that we might stretch the life of this last chip out to the entire twenty years. And no further.

"I have neglected to mention my analysis of these problems, up to this point. But I shall remedy that now.

"There is but one solution: _open the Vault_. We need not do so today, soon, or even this year, but it must be done. The problem of the generator is the one most easily solved: access to water not for human use will allow for electrolyzation, and the collection of additional deuterium. If any settlements exist, they may have access to, or at least knowledge of, spare parts that could be used to repair the generator.

"If nothing else, I believe that, with access to silicon-based sand, I could manufacture light bulbs for use in the Vault. They would be primitive, at best, and inefficient, but I could do so even with just the tools in the Vault. That does not include any equipment that could be scavenged from old factories, or perhaps purchased from settlements.

"The water problem would also be easier to solve. Even if no replacements for the chip could be found, access to simple _sunlight_ would allow for a full-size solar purifier to be built. And as for our medical supplies, new chemical agents could be manufactured from nothing more than trace elements in the soil.

"Nothing can be done regarding the Vault's structure. That is unfortunately a fact. But it won't matter after a century of having the Vault open.

"The fact of the matter is, sir, that it isn't much short of a _miracle_ that the Vault's machinery has lasted this long. If I had been alive when it was built, I would have given poor odds on it doing so. There is no question, sir, that it has lasted us an amazingly long time. But machinery _does not_ last forever. We have run through our supply of spare parts, and have done so decades ago. We are nearing the end of our supply of cannibalizable parts from unused sections. We are fast approaching the point where we will have to close _currently_ used sections in order to keep going. The situation _will not_ improve unless the Vault is opened. It may not, even then, but it is our only chance.

"I am aware, sir, that you have taken a hard line against even the _mention_ of opening the Vault. That is the reason I have never brought it up before. But I have spent no small part of this year preparing this report, sir, because whatever personal feelings you may have regarding the opening of the Vault during your tenure as Overseer, _it cannot be put off any longer_. You, sir, need to make the decision _now_, because if you do not, there will be _nothing_ we can do about these situations. Even if my estimates are off, they will not be off by much. Meaning, that if you choose to do nothing, your successor will be our_ last _Overseer. In fact, my estimates may be too generous, and _you_ may be our last Overseer, if you choose to do nothing, sir."

Marcus stopped speaking.

Alphonse Amaldovar's eyes had gone cold before Marcus could finish his second sentence, and had not warmed at all during his report. Marcus was under no illusions: The Overseer had heard, but would pay little attention to his report. The only thing the man had heard, as he had expected, was that Marcus was advocating opening the Vault.

~~~ Flashback~~~

Marcus had decided, at age 10, shortly after receiving his PipBoy, that he would leave the Vault someday. He knew, even then, that the Vault would eventually fail, just as all machinery eventually did. Without an outside source of spare parts, entropy would eventually take the Vault. So, it was at age 10 that he decided to begin preparing for life Outside.

Unfortunately, there he ran into a wall. The reconnaissance reports of Ann Palmer were useful, but extremely limited in scope. All he knew was that people were still alive outside, that there were still pockets of radioactive material from the bombings, and that the local fauna was both large and dangerous.

Turning to the Vault archive, he began researching anything even remotely useful his spare time. Downloading the files to his PipBoy, he could study them any time he wanted, even during Mr. Brotch's class, since he was the best student. Military manuals, firearm manuals, civilian survival guides, general repair manuals… anything even remotely useful.

But, very quickly, he came to the conclusion that no matter how much he studied guns, without practical experience he would be little better than any other amateur. A weapon is only a weapon in hands prepared to use it, after all. So, with no access to guns, with what weapons could he prepare his hands?

It was, ironically, his father who gave him the idea. "You know how hard it is to find a spring that small? Luckily, Butch 'misplaced' that switchblade of his…" _Making_ a weapon couldn't be that hard.

That meant more research. It led to the discovery of first a comic book, and then a real text containing a short history of a famous group of assassins: the _ninja_. Marcus couldn't do everything the ninja were supposed to have done for training, but he could do a fair bit of it.

His physical training began immediately. Some of it was simple muscle control, and he could do it while sitting in class. Other parts he did in his room. One thing he could do all the time, though, was _silence_. Walking, moving, even breathing quietly would be useful skills in what would likely be a violent and dangerous world Outside, and many predators (both human and non) hunted by sound.

After a year, he began trying to make simple weapons. Shuriken, the metal star-shaped blades meant for throwing, were easily made from scrap metal. Learning to throw them accurately was _not_ so easy, and he would spend the better part of five years learning to do so. By the time he'd mastered it, though, he could easily land a killing blow at thirty feet with one.

He didn't have, and wouldn't be able to get, a gun. He could, however, have the next best thing: a bow. Like the shuriken, a bow was easy to make. Arrows were a little harder, but still simple. Learning to shoot was difficult, but he could reliably hit the bulls-eye on a head-sized target at thirty yards (the longest corridor he could find, in an unused section of the Vault) by the time he'd mastered the shuriken.

Other skills he learned to a greater or lesser extent. Hojutsu (the art of tying people up) he couldn't really practice, except on mannequins he made for the purpose, but he could practice getting out of being tied up. Basic medicine he could (and did) learn from his father. Tracking could not be practiced, and so would remain a theoretical skill until after he left. Starting a fire was easy to learn, but hard to conceal in the Vault.

Technology, though, was what really intrigued him. After what he'd read, he came to the opposite conclusion that many in the Vault had: technology was _not_ evil, it was merely a tool. Philosophy, however, was a means of thinking: it _could_ be evil. Technology, after all, was just applied science; science was applied reason; and reason was man's primary survival tool. It was therefore impossible for technology to be evil. He then noticed the disconnect: technology might have been what allowed the Chinese Communists to bomb the US, but it was technology that kept people alive inside the Vault.

A study of technology required a thorough study of science, and with that achieved, lead to a study of industry…

~~~End flashback~~~

He met the Overseer's hard gaze, and held it. He knew that all he was doing, by showing no fear, was pissing the old man off. But he didn't care. He had just presented the man with a complete and, more importantly, _incontrovertible_ argument for opening the Vault; and, instead of thinking, the old man responded by getting angry. This was the final bit of evidence that proved Marcus's theory: Alphonse Amaldovar didn't care about why. So long as he was Overseer, _no one_ was leaving the Vault.

Finally, the old man opened his mouth. His words were cold. "If you ever speak of this again, you will spend the rest of what will prove to be a very _short_ life in the security cell. Do I make myself clear?"

Marcus kept his face impassive. After a moment, he replied, "Perfectly, sir."

"Good. Now get out."

And with that, Marcus removed himself from the office, again soundlessly.

'Anyone that sneaky can't be trusted,' thought Alphonse.

~~~Scene break: One week later~~~

"Wake up! Come on, you've got to wake up!"

Amata was calling him…

**Author's Notes**: In terms of the game mechanics, Marcus is going to walk out of the Vault with 50 in every skill except Big Guns, Energy Weapons, Small Guns, and Explosives (the explanation being his research, and practice, constituting reading Skill Books). Those 4 will be set at 25.

He will also walk out with the Silent Running, Daddy's Boy, Entomologist, Intense Training, Robotics Expert, Light Step, Thief, Ninja, and Gun Nut perk (the last being his source of Small Guns skill).His attributes will be set to: Str. 8, Per. 9, End. 8, Cha. 5, Int. 10, Agi. 9, Luck 8 (Total 57 points: 40 base stat points, 10 levels of Intense Training, and 7 Bobble heads).

Marcus isn't going to be invincible, but he will be perceptive, intelligent, and agile, meaning that he simply won't walk into most traps, and will fight in such a way so as to take maximum advantage of his abilities. This is the way I play Fallout 3, and that is the way Marcus will fight. As for his conversation with Mr. Brotch, Marcus is merely the most intelligent person _Mr. Brotch_ has ever met, which isn't too many people. Marcus is very intelligent, but it's more creativity than 'extreme awesome smartness!!!!!'

Thank you to all my readers! I am glad that so many people have received my story so well. I will _not_ stop writing this story until it is finished, I promise you that, but I will do it for myself, not for you (not that I don't appreciate you all). My original timeline set the final scene of the last chapter as being 2097, twenty years after the start of Fallout 3. There will be a few time-skips involved, so don't fret.

**Second Note: Philosophical Discussion Ahead! Part 1 of why capitalism is moral**

(You do not need to read this in order to understand the story, not really. But you may wish to do so, as you will find it hard to understand why some of Marcus's decisions are _moral_ if you don't read these. I will post new parts of this explanation at the ends of subsequent chapters.)

Some people have wondered if Marcus is going to be a so-called Mary-Sue, and while I dislike the term, I will explain: I, and by extension Marcus, am a moral _absolutist_. I am unwilling to compromise my principles, _ever_, for _any_ reason. By choosing to be such a person, I must choose my principles in such a way that I would never be tempted to bend them, and so I have.

Life is my basic value, and the means by which life can be achieved by man is Reason, making it man's basic virtue (a value is that which one acts to gain or keep, a virtue is the means by which one does so). Integration of knowledge must be done according to the rules of reason (which prevent errors in reasoning), and we call these rules _logic_. Reason and Logic are based on the _law of identification: _A is A; and also upon the _law of non-contradiction: _object A cannot be B and "not-B" at the same time and in the same sense.

Logical conclusions cannot contradict things already known (this is the phenomenon of proving a falsehood using proper formal logic: the problem is always a false premise); this is known as rationality. By contrast, to _rationalize_ something is to distort it so that it _seems_ not to contradict things known, but in fact still does so.

Being a rational human, my standard of value is _life, _specifically _my_ life. I can have no other rational standard, because in order to remain alive I must live for myself. Living for others makes suicide a rational choice, and it is therefore unacceptable. Suicide is only rational in very specific situations; for example, if a wife, deeply loved by her husband, dies, it may be rational for him to follow her. It would _not_ be rational for him to merely grab a gun and shoot himself upon learning of her death, however. What would be rational is for him to decide, "Everything I valued took the form of my wife. Without her, life has nothing further to offer me," put his affairs in order, and _then_ follow her. This, however, supposes a particular definition of _love_, which I will now explain.

If reason is the basis of value, emotion cannot be one. However, it is not: the so-called dichotomy of logic/emotion is in fact a false one. Leonard Peikoff, a professor of philosophy and the heir of Objectivism, taught his students this with a simple experiment:

He walked into class and, without saying a word, began passing out exam booklets. Without fail, it only took a few minutes before his students began responding how it wasn't fair, he hadn't told them there was a test that day… and so on. Still without saying a word, he then collected the blank exam books, and then responded, "Do you see now? Emotion _follows_ thought. First you experience the event: I passed out test books. Then, you processed the event: the books meant a test, a test that you would likely fail because you hadn't studied, and you hadn't studied because I hadn't warned you that there would be a test, and of course that failing a test was _bad_. Then came the emotional response: panic, and anger. Panic at the prospect of an unexpected failure, anger at the lack of warning." Event, _then_ thought (reason, logic, rationality), _then_ emotional response.

This means that love, an emotion, must have a logical basis. The basis of love, of course, is value. In order to fully experience a romantic relationship with someone else – i.e., in order to _love_ someone other than yourself – you must first love yourself. In order to love yourself, you must fully examine every part of yourself, and you may not believe anything contradictory, which would, for example, exclude being religious, as every religion makes some kind of contradictory claim in order to induce guilt in its adherents. Once you can love yourself, by recognizing everything you value correctly, you must then find a person who embodies all the things you value. If you find this person, you will experience what is often called "true love". It is love in its purest form, because the parts of them that make you love them are the parts of yourself that make you love yourself.

This is the only rational sort of love. Any other sort eventually leads to alienation, and betrayal, with even a small amount of sustained tension. Many people throughout history, including the likes of Jesus, Mother Theresa, Gandhi, and others, have called upon us to "love our enemies". This is _impossible_. One _cannot_ love the people one hates. But by calling upon us to do so, they are inducing _guilt_: guilt because we believe (for equally bad reasons) that what they are saying is moral, but we are unable to obey. It is this guilt that ensnares religious believers. And it is this guilt that makes them cling as hard as they do to their religions: they think the only way to give up religion is to give up _morals_, and this is why they imagine that atheists are evil.

…I have wandered a bit from what I wanted so say, but everything was _meaningful_, at least. I, and Marcus, are _not_ moral relativists, but moral absolutists. It is simply that we see individualism and capitalism as being _moral_. I will explain more in later chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Fallout 3 is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I gain no monetary profit from writing this.

**ATLAS**

**Chapter 3: Outside**

From the foreword to _The Constitution of the Second Republic_: "The Founding Fathers, when they wrote the first Constitution of the United States of America, did the best job the times they lived in allowed them to do. They were trying to forge a nation, and trying to overturn centuries of bad philosophy simply couldn't be done in the time they had to do it in. They had to work with what they had. Add in the fact that they themselves hadn't worked through all of the problems with what they were proposing, and failure could have been predicted from the start. But I saw what their work could have been, and when I wrote the second Constitution, I made sure not to include the same contradictions that made the original work fail."

"Come on, you've got to wake up!"

'I just finished a fifteen hour workday only a short time ago. I don't think so.' "Leave me alone. I'm trying to get some sleep."

"No, you've got to get up right now! If my father's men catch you here, I don't know what'll happen!"

_Now_ the agitation in her voice got through to his sleep-addled brain. Instantly awake, he sat up. "Why would they be looking for me?" he inquired, curious, while putting on his Vault suit. He idly noted that Amata wasn't paying attention to his lack of clothing. "I haven't done anything."

"This isn't about some stupid prank!" Finally meeting her gaze, Marcus gave a start, unsettled by the fear in her eyes. "You're dad left the Vault somehow. Jonas is dead! So you'd better listen to me and get moving, if you don't want to end up like him!"

'Jonas is dead? What the fuck is going on? What the hell did you do, old man?' "I'm listening. What happened to Jonas?"

Tears welled up. "I'm sorry… he's dead. They beat him… They just wouldn't stop… And my father ordered them to do it.

"I snuck out to warn you as soon as they were gone."

'Son of a bitch! Goddamnit old man, I just gave my report last week! Now Almodovar thinks this was my idea!' "Why didn't you say so?! I think it's time for me to go." He spun around, hurriedly grabbing his pack and tool belt, before digging out a screwdriver.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you!

"Listen… you have to follow your dad – escape from the Vault. And you have to do it now, while everything's still in confusion." "My thoughts exactly," he interjected. She ignored him, and continued, "Maybe it's none of my business, but… you seem just as surprised as me to learn that your dad has left. Didn't he tell you what he was planning?"

"No, I had no idea that _he_ was planning to leave. That explains why your dad had Jonas beaten to death though: he must've thought Jonas was in on it… which he probably was."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm sure he had his reasons… what did you mean, you didn't know _he_ was planning to leave?"

"I mean that _I_ was planning to leave. I wish the old man had talked to me about this, we could've left together!" All the while, he was digging at a panel on the wall with the screwdriver. Finally, it popped open, revealing a modified Vault-Tec issue pack and satchel, along with his unstrung bow and quiver. Carefully practiced movements strapped the pack and quiver to his body, before sliding the bow into the quiver. Slinging the satchel over his head, he turned to Amata, noting the shocked look on her face. She quickly shook herself out of it.

"I guess that doesn't matter anymore. I can help you escape. I have my own plan!"

"Not another one of your 'plans', Amata…" he retorted, thinking about her plans for his birthday.

"I don't have time to explain. You're just going to have to trust me!" She was getting hysterical. "Listen, there's a tunnel…"

"Beneath your father's desk, I know. That's how I was planning to get out."

"Okay. Use these to get into his office." She handed him a box of bobby pins. "That's how I always get in."

Marcus looked resolute. "I'm out of here."

"Oh, one more thing. I stole my father's pistol. I hope you won't need it, but you'd better take it just in case."

'A gun? Nah.' "No, you keep it. You may need it more than I do."

"Well, okay. I guess it may come in handy if I run into any Radroaches.

"All right, I'll try to meet you at the exit. Watch out for security. Good luck!"

With that, she took off running.

He moved to follow her, and paused. On impulse, he grabbed his old BB gun, and then opened the desk. In it was the sensor module he'd first modified nearly four years ago. Now, it bore little resemblance to its original design, outfitted with radio parts and the like. 'I guess it's time to put this thing to good use.' He spun a dial on the face, giving the device a small jolt of AC electrical power, and charging the built-in capacitor. When the small light came on (indicating that the capacitor was charged), he flipped the switch.

A radio pulse went out, activating a similar device attached to the main security terminal. It charged its own capacitor through the terminal's power box, and then engaged, disabling the Vault's security cameras.

Flicking another switch, this time a manual one on his PipBoy, Marcus disabled the tracking system embedded in the arm-mounted device. He put the unnamed radio-sensor device in his desk ('They may never even notice it in there'), and dashed out the door. Moments later, he stopped. 'Why the hell are so many of the lights out?'

As if in answer, the intercom blared an announcement from the Overseer. "The Radroach infestation is under control. All residents are hereby confined to their quarters. Do NOT interfere with Vault security personnel."

'… Nice old man. Nice,' Marcus realized, 'pretend that some of the lights shorted out, creating this situation, so that no one questions the Vault security being all over. With everyone confined to their quarters, if Amata hadn't warned me, I would have stayed too. Then have me arrested, and tell the Vault that I sabotaged the light system, and that any injuries or deaths are my fault.'*

He was almost to the stairs when he was confronted by Butch.

"You gotta help me! My mom's trapped in there with the Radroaches!"

'What the hell?' "Sorry, Butch, no time. I've got my own problems now. Here, take this." Marcus pressed the BB gun into his hands. "You should be able to save her with this." Without pausing even to gauge Butch's reaction, Marcus continued on, leaving a stunned Butch clutching the gun. A cry from his mother, however, broke him out of his stupor.

"I'm coming to save you, ma!" he shouted, and charged off.

On the next floor, he ran into Officer Gomez. "You're lucky it was me who found you. Get going, and I'll forget I saw you."

"And I'll forget that you work for a homicidal maniac."

"Don't I know it. Why do you think I'm letting you go?"

Running past Andy ("DIE you disgusting vermin! Flame on!") torching the Radroaches that had been after Stanley, he ducked into his father's office. 'Maybe he's left a note or something.'

No note, but he did notice something he'd never seen before: the wall behind his mother's Bible quote, which had fallen to the floor. There was a small, makeshift safe built into the wall. Quickly picking the lock, he withdrew a holotape labeled "Home, Sweet Home", a small bag of something metal, and a set of blueprints for… some sort of weapon. 'What the hell is this?' Unable to spend much time contemplating it, he left. As he passed Stanley, who was repairing Andy, he quipped, "Stanley, consider this a promotion." The man chuckled darkly at Marcus's retreating back.

No sooner had Marcus reached the Atrium then Mary and Tom Holden tried getting past the guards to the door. 'Idiots.'

To his surprise, the guards drew their guns and fired, fortunately missing the two with the first salvo. Without thinking, he drew two of his shuriken and threw then in rapid succession. Officers Richards and O'Brian were both struck in the throat and… fell to their knees, dropping their guns, grasping their throats and coughing. 'Glad I didn't sharpen those two,' he thought, as he sprinted down the short hallway and cold-cocked both of them, knocking them out. O'Brian's armor was in good condition, so he grabbed it and put it on. 'Security has kill orders, after all, and I'd rather make it out of here without any holes.' The security helms were ignored as too cumbersome.

"I'll take those. You've just proven you can't handle these responsibly," he remarked with little humor, confiscating the weapons.

Someone had propped open the staircase door ('Probably Amata,' he supposed), which was fortunate because someone else had engaged the security lock on the main door.

Upstairs, he ran into Security Chief Hannon. The man was about to order him back to his quarters, but upon recognizing Marcus, he charged with a wordless yell, brandishing his security baton like a sword. He was still yelling when Marcus pulled him into a shoulder throw over the railing to the lower floor.

Ignoring the indignant yells of Allen Mack, he sprinted towards the Overseer's office, leaping from Radroach carapace to Radroach carapace, crushing the bugs as he went. 'Why the hell is everyone so afraid of these things? They're bugs. Even scaled up like this, their carapace can't take 80 kilos of man and 20 kilos of gear landing on their backs. Hell, the scaling up actually makes their carapace weaker, since their weight increases faster than their size.'

He stopped briefly upon finding Floyd Lewis's body. 'Damn shame. He was a good engineer,' he thought, noting the lacerations from Radroach mandibles on his body. 'Looks like he tripped over his toolbox, and they bit his throat while he was down.'

Loud voices from the security office made him finally pause, knowing how close he was to the exit.

Creeping close, he discovered Amata being interrogated by her father and Officer Mack ('That sadist'). He cheered inwardly when, after Mack threatened her, she drew the gun and pointed it at the sadist. He was less happy, and more surprised, when Amata fired on the advancing officer, killing him, but he didn't blame the girl. After Mack fell, she dashed out of the room, leaving her stunned father in her wake. She didn't notice Marcus there.

When Marcus stepped into the security office though, Alphonse did. "You! I don't think you understand how much trouble you're in!"

"Shut up, old man. You're a murderer, and I don't give a shit what you have to say. Consider this my severance pay." He slugged the older man in the gut.

Alphonse gasped, falling to his knees, just as the second blow came, smashing his head into the wall and knocking him out.

He looked down at the unconscious man. 'Should I just kill him…? Nah. Jonas made his choice when he helped Dad, and I'd rather get out of here without a body count. I don't think Amata would forgive me, come to think of it.'

He turned around, and walked calmly to the Almodovar quarters, leaving the old man to his 'rest'. As he left, he remarked, "That's two murders and who knows how many deaths on your hands, old man."

Hearing Amata sobbing, he approached. "Oh my god! I had no idea that my father would… I had no choice. Officer Mack, he…

"Take it. I don't want it anymore. I don't know what I'd do if I still had that gun and my father came looking for me."

He nodded, taking the weapon. Fortunately, Vault security armor suits had built-in holsters for Vault-Tec issue 10mm pistols. "I'll be sure to put this gun to good use."

Her response came out reproachful, as though she blamed him for her slaying of Mack. "Maybe it would have been better if you had taken it in the first place!"

"No," he disagreed, "The only difference is that it would have been me killing Steve Mack instead of you. He'd still be dead."

"I don't know. But you'd better get out of here. I'll try to meet you at the Vault door. If I don't make it… good luck."

He stopped briefly to check Jonas's body. On it was a holotape labeled "Goodbye". 'Probably from Dad'. Ransacking the nearby drawers revealed some packs of pre-war dollars and, oddly, a carton of cigarettes. He turned to the door, withdrew a bobby pin, and quickly picked the lock, allowing him to access the office.

Hacking the console was made easy by the fact that Alphonse Almodovar hadn't changed his password in six years. He'd read the other files before, so he ignored them, and opened the tunnel door.

With only a few Radroaches for obstacles, it didn't take long to reach the Vault door. He stood at the controls, frozen. Finally, addressing no one, he said aloud, "I will never forget this moment," and hit the switch.

Klaxons blared, announcing the imminent unsealing of the Vault. Footsteps behind him, too quiet to be anyone wearing armor. "Oh my god! You actually opened it!"

His head turned, and faced Amata. She continued, "You did it! You opened the door! My God, I almost didn't believe it was possible!"

"…When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. I always have."

"You're right. I never should have doubted you."

"Just so you know, Amata, it was your father who messed with the lights. Any injuries or deaths are his fault."

"…Okay. I'll make sure to tell everyone."

"If you aren't coming with me, I have to go."

"It's tempting, but… my place is here. Goodbye, Marcus. Listen, if you do catch up with your dad, tell him I'm sorry. For… you know, Jonas, and my father, and everything."

A nod was the only reply she got.

Shouts behind him as he crossed the threshold, "For the Overseer….! Wait, there's no way I'm going out there!" made him chuckle. He reached the door, knowing it had been opened only hours before and paused, listening to the Vault Door close. His eyes closed with it, and he pushed, taking his first steps into the light.

**Author's Notes**: This chapter felt a little contrived to me. I'll be improving on it in the future, so if you thought so as well, don't worry.

UPDATE: Made a few changes, prior to anyone actually suggesting any. Just stuff that occurred to me after reading through it again.

Note: With a few exceptions, all of Amata's speech, including typos, is from canon.

*This is my understanding of the canon story. I'm not sure how right it is, but I think it's logical, and it fits all the evidence.

The fact that the Overseer reacted so badly to James leaving in canon bugged me, because I couldn't imagine him wanting anyone _dead_ over it. So, I built the plot device of the "performance report" to make the scenario more believable. Besides, it hasn't even been a week since Marcus gave his report, so James's leaving must have cracked Alphonse.

As for the lights, I thought that was obvious. The whole point isn't to fool Marcus; it's to fool the other residents. This is what Hitler did in the build-up to the Second World War He staged events knowing that his enemies would not be fooled, because it was the German people and not those enemies who were the targets of the deceptions. It creates a suitable cover story for a leader pretending not to be a dictator.

One of the reasons I used so much of the in-game dialog was to keep the story familiar to Fallout 3's fans. It also kept me from skipping too much and forgetting details.

…I have to admit, it's been very difficult to not skip ahead to the main action of my story. I've got a ways to go before I get to the point of maximum writer's freedom, and it's hard to hold on to the fact that I need the necessary foundation first. It's okay though, I'm not the only one who has to go through this: Marcus will have to, as well. At least he'll be getting to work with his hands during that period though.

Just so you all know, the standard story is just the beginning (in case you didn't quite get the opening sub-paragraph). I'm going to do something that's never been done before, not in any story I've ever read, anywhere, Fallout 3 or not. You may not see it coming, or you might: sometimes I foreshadow well, sometimes I don't. This is my chance to show anyone who cares to look exactly how I see the world. Relentless optimism and clear, far-reaching vision is the name of the game. Never expecting perfection, only expecting _better_.

Philosophical Discussion Part 2:

Ah… I think it's gonna be a while before I write another of these. I just wanted to mention that. Maybe the next chapter or the one following.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Fallout 3 is the property of Bethesda Softworks. I gain no monetary profit from writing this.

**ATLAS**

**Chapter 4: Outside**

From _The Constitution of the Second Republic_, Article 4, _The Bill of Rights_, "1. Congress shall make no law abridging the right of the individual to produce or trade, nor shall it make laws respecting a particular institution thereof, nor shall it appropriate funds to or from an institution thereof, nor shall it make laws abridging the right of property, nor shall it levy special taxes upon an institution thereof, nor shall it do any of these to an industry as a whole or in part, nor shall it abridge the right of property of an individual without due process of law. Congress _may_ make laws prohibiting _all_ trade with foreign nations whom the United States is engaged in hostilities with, with the understanding that any such prohibitions shall end along with the hostilities."

It was daytime.

At first, that was all Marcus could determine. It was day, if only because it was so bright out. It was like turning the lights on in the Vault, from a dark room, only worse. Holding his hand up, he shielded his eyes. At first, nothing happened. His eyes were still too unused to sunlight.

And then…

Everything resolved slowly. A sea of brown and gray, at first. Then, different shades formed. Outlines then, and finally, details became visible.

Gray stone, brown soil. And, when he dared look about for it, he stared upward at the sun, for the first time. White light and unimaginable heat streamed into his retinas from the distant star. His eyes watered after only a moment, and he looked away. 'I'll have the rest of my life to get used to it,' he thought, blinking.

Scents wafted towards him. The faint smell of smoke ('Somewhere, something's burning'), of ash ('Somewhere else, something's long since burned'), and others that he didn't recognize. One scent, though, was unmistakable: decay. 'Somewhere, something's dead. In other places, long since dead.'

A trail lead downward from his position, but a much shorter path lead to a sign that read "Scenic Overlook". Figuring a good vantage point was the best place to start, he approached the cliff, and stared.

Sights he had seen in books, read about in books, and imagined… were nothing compared to the reality. Below him, a road. A _paved_ road, made of stone ('No, cement') as opposed to a metal one. His eyes followed the road, spotting… what had to have been a town, a short distance due east. All of the structures had long since burned, but the original shapes of the homes they had been were plainly visible.

Just past the houses, there was something red… 'A Red Rocket deuterium fuel station, for the fusion cell automobiles,' he realized. Analyzing the distance as best he could, he shook his head. 'A deuterium station, not even a whole kilometer from the Vault. Even if there wasn't any fuel left, the materials might have still been in good enough condition to contain fuel. I might have been able to fix the generator with just this!'

He clenched his fist in frustration, torn. Part of him wished he could march back into the Vault, just to sock Almodovar one more time. He shook his head again. 'It's not my problem any more.'

To the south, a monstrous… something. Images and concepts flickered in his mind, fitting themselves together like jigsaw pieces, making connections and chains, forming a coherent and useful whole. 'It's horribly degraded, but… that must have been a raised highway.' Marcus had never seen a road before, never mind a highway or a bridge. But knowing what all those things were made it possible to fit the essentials together to make a new concept.

His eyes raked back towards the town, stopping at a metal structure. It was round, sitting on top of some kind of metal frame. The bottom swooped at the middle, forming a trough, from which a pipe ran, into the ground. 'A water tower. It looks to be in good condition, all things considered.' _That_ much had been in his books. He made a note in his PipBoy.

Further away, off in the distance, silhouettes. Something tall and pointed… 'The Washington Monument.' Further away, a round shape ('A dome'), with something on top… 'The Capitol Building.' They were the only recognizable structures, but what was left of DC was visible.

He looked down, preparing to leave the overlook and follow the trail down, when he noticed… 'A pair of Vault-Tec issue boot-prints; they aren't mine. Father stood here, only a few hours ago.'

He smiled. He'd never known why his father had kept the truth from him, not that he'd been all that good at hiding it. So many details that others expected him to overlook: his father's scars, the calluses on his feet and hands (that no one else had), the toughness of his skin… Even without knowing what he knew, it would have been obvious that his father had been somewhere the rest of them hadn't.

Movement caught his eye. '…There!'

Down near the houses, in what was left of Springvale, something was moving. That it was metallic was visible even from this distance, but… 'Something's odd. It's not changing posture as it moves.' His eyes narrowed. 'Some kind of bot, perhaps?'

A much larger shape, recognizable only by its disorder, caught his eye. It was a seemingly-random amalgamation of badly rusted metal, but it was large. Consulting the data files in his PipBoy, he nodded. 'That must be Megaton.'

'Well, let's see what's in this bag of Dad's.' He opened the small sack, and lifted out... 'Bottle caps?' Indeed, the label read "Nuka-Cola", and the object was clearly a bottle cap. He peered into the bag. 'All caps. Judging from the size of this bag, I'd say... about three hundred of these. What for I wonder?'

He considered carefully. 'Small, metallic, interchangeable, manufactured, rare (given that they only made so many of these)...' He made the connection, staring at the metal object. 'It's... a currency. It has to be. It's the only possibility. A standard currency, as opposed to a fiat one.' He chuckled. 'I suppose it could just be Dad's collection... no, that doesn't make sense. He didn't collect these while he was in the Vault, even though we had some Nuka-Cola. And it was in there with his other Outside things. It has to be a currency.'

He started. 'Wait, a currency? Currency means trade. Trade means production. Production means settlements. Settlements mean people. And people means... the basis of civilization. Wonderful. This may not be as bad as I had feared.'*

As he replaced the small sack into his satchel, his PipBoy caught his attention. Thinking hard, he raised his arm, tapping the controls. Amazingly, a map came up after only a moment of searching. More amazingly, the map displayed his location. 'Hmm, seems like Vault-Tec's Terrestrial Positioning System is still up.'

Concentrating, he remembered reading about the Network. Before the war, Vault-Tec executives had pointed out (in a rare display of genuine foresight) to the President that, in the event of nuclear war, the GPS satellite network would probably be lost, since such a war would likely destroy the space-faring capabilities of the US. In response, the President agreed to add the TPS system to Vault-Tec's contract. The network was never completed, but as per the contract, Vault-Tec began work in the area surrounding Washington DC, and had apparently gotten quite a bit finished. 'Looks like... about 250 square kilometers. Good to know.'

Stepping away from the cliff, he started down the path. 'Half a kilometer, perhaps three-quarters. Not even ten minutes walk.'

He stepped lightly. After years of walking quietly in a place where sounds carried for hundreds of meters, it was unlikely that anything could hear his footsteps outside. 'Still, best to stay in practice.'

He stayed close to the cliff, drawing his pistol as he walked, moving confidently but cautiously. A primary disadvantage of living underground in a metal cage was that his ears were unsuited to open air, but he would acclimate soon enough.

He reached the wreckage of the town. Now finally able to get a good look at the bot, he noted how odd it was. 'Looks like that Soviet probe, Sputnik.' He moved towards one of the wrecked homes, his eyes fixed upon the grounded probe, keeping the pistol low.

It reached a fork in the road, and spun around, facing exactly the opposite way it had been going. Directly towards where he had come from.

He raised the pistol, fixing the steel sights upon the ball, as it… passed right by him. Now he was close enough to hear that it was playing some kind of audio file. '…is that… _I Wish I Was in __Dixie?_' Thoroughly confused, he didn't move, watching the probe. 'Why is it playing a song from the Civil War?' It reached the cliff, spun around, and returned.

After a few minutes of this, Marcus relaxed. 'It's stuck on some kind of patrol pattern. It's in good condition, though. Wonder who built it? It'd have to be fairly recently...'

At this point, the chassis of the bot caught his eye. He'd noticed before that it was in good condition, but as he stepped forward, he got a good look at the metal. 'That's not any kind of steel I've ever seen... Ah, it's aluminum. Well, that means it could be pretty old, since aluminum doesn't corrode the way steel does. It has no sheen, so it's been out here awhile and been scored by this dust, but since the air's so dry there's been no oxidization.

'...which makes it impossible to tell how old this damn thing is. Still, it's playing Dixie. That means that whoever made this thing had access to Prewar data files.'

Still moving cautiously, he stepped into the bots path as it reached the cliff and turned about-face. He held the pistol in both hands, but pointed it down, since he knew that Prewar bots were capable of recognizing armed assailants. 'A bot that small can't have a power source of any great size, so it'd have to charge the capacitor for that laser just before firing. It couldn't afford to go around with it charged, since a body that size would mean insufficient air-cooling. So I should have plenty of time to fire if this thing's hostile.'

It neared him, and... went right by him. It passed so closely that he was able to read the serial number, printed just above the Combat Inhibitor Module mounted to its rear. 'Lets see... Ah, damn it, it's been scratched. I think that says... 2075. Hmm, so it is Prewar. What's that say? "Reconnaissance Eyebot"? Interesting.'

At this range, the fact that the bot had been modified was patently obvious. 'Those speakers are new... Looks like the camera on this one's been damaged. Radio antennae too. Probably why it's stuck on this patrol pattern.'

As it was obviously non-hostile, he let it be, and continued along the road. He moved south, towards the other row of ruined houses as he made his way towards Megaton. 'Gotta get used to using cover. I'd be exposed from all angles in the middle of the road.' He spotted an old ruined sign, reading "Welcome to Springvale". He raised his PipBoy, and marked the location as a permanent reference. A stray thought hit him, and he deleted the location of the Vault. 'I'll remember where it is, but you never know what might happen.' Another sign, obviously much newer, read "Megaton", with an arrow pointing up a dirt path, out of the town.

His eyes raked over everything in view, ears peeled for any anomalous noise. He spotted a house in good repair. '...wonder if someone's living there... I'll check it out later. Must establish a base of operations first, so I have a reference point to work from.'

The row of houses ended. 'Still sixty meters to go.' He stayed close to the short rocks as he approached the metal structure. A gunshot caught his ear, and he crouched, ready to run. 'What? Where?'

He spotted the source of the noise: a man atop the metal wall of Megaton, leveling a rifle down towards... 'What the hell are those...?' The man straightened, the combat obviously over, and calmly reloaded his rifle. Two men, what had to be a bot, and a large... creature, laden with something, stood before the gate.

Marcus stood, and continued towards the town.

To his surprise, the creature turned out to be some sort of cattle. A very odd sort of cattle, given that it had two heads, but cattle nonetheless. One of the men wore what had to be armor, and carried an assault rifle ('R91 probably. Can't see the condition from this side of him'). The other man was, quite startlingly, garbed in a Prewar business suit, and wore a pair of eyeglasses. He carried an MP5. The rifleman atop the gate was also armored, and wore what seemed to be biker goggles ('Probably for the dust') and a hood of some kind, covering only his hair.

For someone who had spent a lifetime underground, seeing the same people every day for nineteen years... seeing someone he didn't recognize gave him palpable relief. Seeing people surviving outside gave an even greater relief. And seeing a man in a business suit sent a pleasant tingle he didn't quite understand up his spine.

'That beast is carrying goods of some kind. Is he a traveler... or a merchant?' Marcus could only hope.

It turned out that the combat had involved the same sort of monstrous Ants mentioned in the scouting report Marcus had obtained from the Overseer's computer. Two lay dead, and even now a ragged-looking man was cutting them open with a small knife and carving out the meat inside. The goggled man atop the gate called out to him, "Hey Mickey! One of those is mine!"

As the ragged man finished, he walked over to the gate and tossed one of the Ant-steaks upwards to the goggled man, who caught it, before plopping himself down near the gate and tearing into the meat like a starving dog.

Nearing the suited man, Marcus holstered his weapon. The armored man relaxed marginally, and the suited man spoke.

"Welcome, welcome, weary traveler, to my caravan.

"You look like a traveler in need of relaxation and the finest of chemical assistance. Well, wander no more, my good friend, for I am Doc Hoff, procurer of the finest of medical goods and chemical assistance. How may I help you?"

'...a salesman?' "Tell me about your, er, caravan, Mr. Hoff."

He smiled. "I provide food, drinks, and discreet chemicals to discerning customers around the Capital Wasteland. I help ease the suffering of my fellow man. For a price."

Now Marcus was smiling. "Of course." 'The Capital Wasteland? It fits.'

Hoff's smile widened. "I don't have a home office, exactly, but I organize much of my trade with Ernest Roe, in Canterbury Commons."

"Canterbury Commons? Where's that?"

"Oh, it's about... maybe twenty klicks to the northeast. Nice little town, Canterbury."

"And this Ernest Roe, he's the mayor?"

"I suppose you'd call it that. I and my fellow caravan drivers run most of our trade through Canterbury. Ernest Roe founded Canterbury, along with his late sister."

"Hmm." Marcus made a note in his PipBoy, and marked the probable location of Canterbury Commons on his map.

"If you don't mind my asking, whereabouts are you from, stranger?"

Marcus's face rose. "West. I'm from west of here."

"Ah, the Vault, perhaps?"

"... Yes. I'm from the Vault. How did you know?"

"Aside from your friendly and articulate speech? Your skin. I'm not much of a doctor, no matter my professional title, but I can recognize skin that's never seen the sun before. Besides which, you have a functional PipBoy. I've seen a few of those around, but none that work properly."

"Ah. Well, that explains that. So, what do you have for sale?"

Hoff opened the beast's pack, displaying his wares. He noted something that looked vaguely like a Pre-war asthma inhaler. "What's that?"

"Ah, that's Jet. One of my more... discreet chemicals."

Marcus perused the remainder of the Doc's goods, noting the quality. It was, without exception, inferior to what he'd brought out of the Vault with him, but he didn't say anything. Eventually, he decided that while he didn't need anything the Doc was offering, he might as well pick up a few things. The Doc was a friendly sort, and honest about his pursuit of profit. 'I need to practice bargaining anyway.'

He gestured to the Doc's stimpacks. "And those cost...?"

"I sell my stimpacks for 30 caps a... ah, I forgot. Caps are..."

Marcus interrupted. "I know what caps are. 30 caps a piece, you say? Hmm... I don't think I need any extra. Not for that price anyway."

Hoff smiled. "Getting a leg up on haggling, are we? Good, you'll survive well out here if you pick things up that quickly. Let's say, 25 caps, then."

"Hmm," Marcus murmured noncommittally, "What are those? I don't recognize them."

"Ah, one of my newest wares from Point Lookout. They're called Punga. Some sort of fungal fruit, apparently. These yellow ones are the so-called 'Wild' breed, while these white ones are the cultivated variety. My supplier called them 'Refined'."

'Cultivation...?' "Someone grows these?"

"Some place called the Ark and Dove Cathedral, from what I hear. A group of tribals live there, and they cultivate these for food and for trade."

"Hmmm. How much for two of each?"

"12 for the Wild, 28 for the Refined. Two each makes 80, plus the stimpack makes 105."

Haggling was a new skill for Marcus, but he did fairly well, if only because the affable Hoff was going easy on him. He eventually talked the Doc down to a price of 90 caps, part of which was paid with the Police Batons he had stolen from the security officers as well as the cigarettes and Pre-War cash he'd taken, totaling to 50 caps in cash.

"So, Point Lookout you said? Does that refer to Point Lookout National Park?"

"Well, I don't know much about that, but my supplier asked me to give these flyers to whoever asks," Hoff shrugged, and handed Marcus a flyer that read 'Greetings from Point Lookout!'

'Advertising?' "I'll keep that in mind, You have a nice day, Doc."

"And you my Vault friend."

Leaving the good Doctor behind, Marcus approached the beastly structure that was the wall of Megaton.

A nearby Protectron spoke up as he got close, "The Bomb is perfectly safe, we promise!"

'Bomb?' While Marcus stared at the bot, the man high above him flicked a switch, opening the outer gate.

After a moment of confused contemplation, Marcus decided to ignore the bot, and approached the inner gate.

Author's Notes: My most sincere apologies to all my readers. I managed to write through the 6th page of this, and then hit a bad case of writer's block that wouldn't go away. I managed to "plow through" the block by working slowly and carefully, but forcing myself ever onward.

I had originally intended this chapter to cover Marcus's experiences in Megaton, but I eventually decided to cut it short.


	5. Author's Notes

Author's Note:

Before I go on with this story, there is something I would like to clarify.

There are three main schools of literature writing. Romantic, Naturalist, and Symbolist.

I'm not all that knowledgeable about the Symbolist school, but I do know something about the other two.

In the Romantic school of literature, each character is supposed to embody an idea, rather than being a necessarily realistic character. _Atlas Shrugged_, the book that inspired me to write this (not that Bethesda didn't provide me with a lot of material) is written in the Romantic style. Ian Fleming used it for the James Bond series of novels, as did George Lucas in the _Star Wars_ and _Indiana Jones_ series.

James Bond is not supposed to be a particularly realistic character, at least he wasn't until the introduction of Daniel Craig, but it didn't stop women from wanting to be with Sean Connery (who embodied what Bond was supposed to be), nor did it stop men from wanting to _be_ James Bond.

The Naturalist school, on the other hand, requires that each character be a real person. While there is certainly value to this school of writing, the proper form of Naturalistic writing is the _chronicle_, and the proper _method_ is journalism.

Whereas the _novel_ represents the Romantic school. Novels contain a structured plot into which the characters fit, and each character, setting, and event is supposed to represent an idea or ideal of some kind. This is why no one complained of the lack of realism in the _story_ of Star Wars, as it was no less entertaining for the plot holes. The ideal of Romanticism is _conflict_, in the sort of Good-vs-Evil way that James Bond always was.

The very best of the Romantic school is represented by Victor Hugo. Ayn Rand agreed that her own works were philosophical writings as much as they were novels, so they cannot be held as _representative_ Romanticism, in spite of their Romantic style. Novels are written about _values we already have_, and their expression. _Atlas Shrugged_ was as much about trying to explain what those values were as it was about expressing those values.

Naturalism, on the other hand, is best represented by Shakespeare. I don't think I really need to explain this part further, except to say that the Bard's characters were believable. In Naturalism, man is often his own worst enemy.

I want to make this clear: I am trying to write a Romantic piece here, not a Naturalist piece. Bethesda gave me _loads_ of material to work with, and I am going to run with it.

My story will continue until well after Broken Steel, and will encompass all of the add-ons except Mothership Zeta. I will be making a few changes to in-game sequences, and having Marcus make a few choices that the game does not permit, but each of those changes will be purposeful in setting up the rest of the story.

I also will not introduce deliberate, obvious flaws into Marcus. He will have them, but they will not be debilitating. The argument that all men are imperfect falls flat, because Marcus is not _supposed_ to be a perfect character. He isn't going to be perfect, nor is every decision he makes going to work out perfectly. But Man-vs-Himself is not a central conflict in Romantic writing. If and when it is introduced, it is a peripheral conflict and not central to the story.

The whole point of Man-vs-Himself is that the character does not have a well-organized and consistent character. In order to have conflict with oneself, one's values have to contradict each other at least at _some_ point. This is Naturalism, because real people tend to be like this.

Also, there _are_ characters in Fallout who are embodiments of Good and Evil, just as there are more realistic characters. Hannibal Hamlin, Sonora Cruz, Lucas Simms, and Sarah Lyons are supposed to be completely _good_ characters, whereas Burke, Augustus Autumn, Daniel Littlehorn, and Talon Commander Jabsco are supposed to be completely _evil_ characters. Marcus is going to be one of those Good characters, and his actions will be consistent with this, but it won't always be obvious to the reader that this is so unless he happens to share Marcus's values.


End file.
